The Moments to Forever
by simply-aly
Summary: He finds her on the roof.
1. Jump

He finds her on the roof of her apartment building. Her blonde hair is blowing into her face, obscuring her view, and her hands at her sides. Sylar sees the slight tremble of her hands, but he's not sure if it's nerves or just the cold.

Snow is falling on this cool winter night, gathering on the lamp-lit sidewalk below and, to be honest, he can envision the pretty picture this would make, were she any other girl.

Years have passed. Friends, enemies, acquaintances, and lovers alike have died on both their parts. They've seen each other little in this period, not avoiding one another but not actively seeking the other either. He tracked her down a while back, though, and finally decided to pay her a visit.

Her apartment's on the top floor, overlooking the city. It's a nice view, but if he were a gambling man, he'd bet that wasn't the reason for the location. He thinks Claire likes the feeling of being so high—a sick, twisted part of her that has developed over the last hundred years or so.

Claire isn't wearing any shoes. No socks either. She is, however, wearing a fancy, green Christmas dress and white stockings. He doesn't bother to wonder over her odd clothing choices, though. He's too focused on where, exactly, her feet are.

Her toes are curled over the edge of the roof, and he understands the rush. He's done it himself many times. But is it a rush for her, or is she going back to her early days of testing her power…this time without the video camera?

He quietly walks over to her. "It's a nice view," he begins casually, his hands crossed over his chest.

Startled, she loses her balance for a moment. Her hands fly out to help steady herself, and she takes a deep breath. "It'd be so easy to just jump," she replies, in the same tone.

"Yeah, sure," he snorts, "except you wouldn't die." He steps closer to her slowly until he's right behind her.

"Who said I wanted to die?" she whispers, seemingly sensing his nearness.

"You wouldn't be doing this if you didn't."

He thinks it strange to be having this conversation with her after all these years. Why now? As if reading his mind, which he's fairly certain she cannot do, she speaks. "Lyle's son died last week. Just fell asleep one night and never woke up. He was seventy-three." Sylar, ever full of knowledge on the subject that is Claire Bennett, knows that whoever Lyle's son was, he was Claire's last blood relative.

Well, this certainly makes sense now.

"So you're reaction to his death is to throw yourself off you're apartment building?" he asks. "Am I the only one who sees what an act of futility that would be?"

"I'm alone now, Sylar," she says, turning her head to look at him. "Everyone who ever gave a damn about me is dead."

Realizing, maybe for the first time, that she simply doesn't see what he does, he turns around without another word and leaves her on the roof.

Two hours, twenty-four minuets, and forty-six seconds later, Claire opens the door to her apartment and finds Sylar lounging in her favorite chair, sipping eggnog.

"This is disgusting, by the way," he says. "First thing we're going to do tomorrow is get you some real groceries."

Claire chooses to ignore him. "I'm going to bed."


	2. New

When she wakes up the next morning, he's lounging on her couch, his feet propped up on her glass coffee table. He's watching some news bulletin featuring recent killings in the area. Apparently, the killer has been taking the left feet of his victims as a trophy.

He, from Claire's prospective, would find the scene ironic, but she doesn't say anything, heading back to her bedroom instead, so he hides his smirk and stares at the television.

Of course, Sylar has been aware of Claire's waking since the moment her feet hit the floor, but gives every outward indication of unawareness. For his part, he's determined to wait out her grief, however long that takes.

He didn't expect it to be this hard, though. Oh, he knew it would be difficult for her—she's the emotional type, after all—but he didn't expect it to be so hard for him to listen to her cry herself to sleep last night.

He did it, though. He sat in that chair with his eyes closed and listened to her desperate cries for over an hour. And when she was finally asleep, he left her apartment in favor of a grocery store and purchased over three hundred dollars in groceries, which he brought back to her apartment and put away. Then he threw out the container of eggnog, purely out of spite.

Now, he does his best to afford her privacy as she goes through what he assumes is her morning routine. Eventually, she comes back out to her living room and walks around to face him. She's only wearing a long, over-sized t-shirt and socks, and her hair is wet from the shower, but to him, she looks perfect. It takes a few moments of silent staring before she sits down opposite him on the couch, pulling her shirt over her knees, which she pulls to her chest. She rests her chin on top of her knees, and stares unblinkingly at him.

She looks vulnerable for the first time since he's known her, fragile and slightly broken. He figures she couldn't have remained innocent for one hundred years though, and time and loss catch up to everyone eventually. It doesn't matter that it's intrinsically different for them, for they still have to watch it happen—over and over again to every person they've ever cared about. Everyone, that is, except each other.

"Why are you here?" Claire asks after a few minuets pass.

For all intents and purposes, he tries to appear as nonchalant as possible. For all he may be able to take, he doesn't honestly know how her outright rejection will affect him. He refuses to let her have that power over him. Sylar just shrugs in answer to her question. "I thought it was about time to pay my favorite cheerleader a visit," he says noncommittally.

Claire rolls her eyes, "I haven't been a cheerleader since you met me."

"You'll always be the cheerleader to me, Claire," he says.

"Just like you'll always be the serial killer?" she throws back.

Sylar stares at her for a moment and sighs. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe the timing isn't right. Maybe she's just too far gone to remember that part of herself. Or maybe, maybe he imagined all of it. But then she looks at him with that vulnerable and broken half-smile and he thinks she might be coming around to what he tried to tell her all those years ago.

"I think," she begins slowly, looking at him almost pleadingly, "it would be best if we left both the cheerleader and the serial killer in the past where they belong. We've both changed too much for that."

And Sylar nods because he recognizes that it is her first step to accepting him.


	3. Holiday

Sylar spends Christmas with Claire at her apartment. He even decorates a tree—white lights, white garland, red ribbon and red and white ornaments—for the first time in his life. It was not Claire's idea, however, it was his, and Claire later confesses to it being her first tree in many years. And when he guides Claire to the tree on Christmas morning, he watches her stare in shocked silence at the many presents under the tree.

"What did you do?" she whispers half in awe, half seemingly scared.

Sylar can't help but roll his eyes as he looks down at her. "I bought them, Claire," he tells her simply, trying not to make a big deal out of something as simple as presents.

Claire walks closer to the tree and kneels down to take a closer look. "But why?" she asks. "I mean, we're not—and you didn't have to—I mean, I..." She doesn't know what to say.

"It's Christmas, Claire," he reminds her with another eye roll, "presents are a part of the tradition, if you recall."

She continues to stare at the carefully wrapped gifts, "But…I didn't get you anything."

He pushes her forward, until she's kneeling right in front of one of the presents. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he says, "I picked up a few things for myself."

He revels in her laugh when she sees the presents labeled: _To: Sylar From: Claire_.

On New Year's Eve, they stay in again, and Sylar provides them both with a plethora of bottles of alcohol, and they wheedle the hours away getting drunk. Or, trying to, anyway, for they both know alcohol has little effect on them. It's just the normality of the activity that provides the entertainment. And, complying with tradition, they also share the requisite kiss at the stroke of midnight.

The kiss, chaste as it was, seems to break through one of Claire's carefully placed walls, and she pulls him closer and pushes him for more. For his part, he cannot help but give into her wordless demand, and eventually they end up in her bed, but in a twist not even he himself predicted, he stops her before they go so far that it cannot be taken back.

"We're not normal, Claire," he says, "much as we're trying to be; and we can't pretend to have a drunken one night stand when we're both completely sober."

And she looks up at him, bites her lower lip and considers his words for a moment. "But what if that's not what I'm doing?" she whispers.

His forehead rests on hers and he kisses her chastely on a sigh. "You're not ready," he says, just realizing it himself. "And I'll not rush this and have you hate me later when you realize it too. I don't want that, and I hope you don't either."

He's not used to being the responsible one , and he's not sure he's managing it so well or if he's making the right decision to begin with. He wants her, after all, and she wants him, and he could so easily just….

But then, one of her hands grasp one of his, and she snuggles into the bed right beside him and whispers, "You're right, thank you," before falling asleep.


	4. Conversation

Sylar never leaves. Five months since that night on the roof, and he's still with her. Claire doesn't comment, but he sees the surprise on her face each morning when her eyes open.

They don't talk much, Claire doesn't really seem know what to say, and Sylar is just patiently waiting for her to realize the truth. He doesn't tell her this, though—doesn't want it to be false in any way.

One morning, Claire decides they need to get away. "Like on a vacation," she says, and Sylar sees the light in her eyes for the first time since he found her here.

"Where would we go?" he asks, deciding right away that he's going to take her wherever she wants to go. He's got money to burn—and if he spends it all, he can always…acquire some more. It's Claire; there's no better reason to go broke than to see her smile.

"Somewhere warm. Mexico maybe? We can stay at one of those fancy resorts, hang out at a pool bar and have people make us drinks all day."

Sylar half-smirks at her. "I think we've both know we could drink all day but never _actually_ get drunk, Claire."

"I know," she says, opening the fridge and grabbing the container of milk. "That doesn't mean we can't have fun having them make us every single thing they have."

Sylar's full on grin makes her giggle. "I think this is the start to a very beautiful friendship."

Claire freezes at that, and Sylar's face becomes instantly unreadable. _She's not ready_, he tells himself, but it doesn't make it any easier to watch her balk every time he tries to get close to her.

"Don't think on it, Claire," he says to lighten the mood. "I'll take care of the arrangements."

She nods and continues preparing her breakfast.

-x-

"Do you ever wonder what it would have been like, if my plan had succeeded all those years ago? Do you think the world would have ever accepted us?" she asks that night. It's the first time she's spoken of their shared history since that first night when they agreed to leave the past in the past.

"I don't know, maybe," he answers, playing with her hair.

The only time she allows him to get close is right before they go to sleep. She speaks the most then, and often allows him contact without freezing up on him. He wonders sometimes if it's healthy, sometimes he wonders if she's still completely sane; but he realizes that their relationship cannot be categorized as healthy _or_ sane, so what the hell should it matter if her nuances are healthy or sane.

Claire breathes deeply and turns to face him, and he untangles his hand from her hair carefully. She still doesn't feel pain, but he always treats her as if she does. Once she's settled again, he goes right back to playing with her hair.

"Do you think we'll ever be free? Do you think there will be a day when everyone has powers and we can all live without having to hide them?"

Sylar hates this question. Not because he doesn't want a world like that, but because he knows what would happen if it came to that. "It can never happen, Claire."

"Why?"

"Because humans are jealous. Everyone will wonder why they didn't end up with a cooler power, and the crazy scientist types will try to figure out a way to be like me or…or Peter. They'll want it all, and it'll be a nightmare for those able to have it all; they'd perform experiments, try to replicate whatever gene it is that we carry."

Claire seems shocked. "But—but you'd never let them take you."

"Me against an army full of specials—I wouldn't stand a chance. And, anyway, why would you care?" he asks softly, without venom, just honest curiosity. "It'd get me out of you're hair."

Her soft smile is back. "I happen to like what you're doing to my hair right now," she says. "It's relaxing."

"That isn't what I meant," he chides teasingly.

"I know," she whispers, snuggling closer.

Not another word is spoken, but he realizes she's made another step in the right direction. She's admitted to liking having him around.

Sylar sleeps easy that night.


End file.
